


All the Heavens

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: You Only Meant Well? [5]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB Frisk, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holidays, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you.", Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Frisk, tangled up in what-has-been and what-will-be, yearns only for closure: from the past their own, and the pasts of others which have set their own in motion. They can't help but grieve and regret the one they didn't SAVE—and are all-too painfully aware of the fact that they never thought anyone would SAVEthem,either.Or: There's no climbing the mountain with ill-intent this time: this time, there's only love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Post-True Pacifist; heavily headcanon-ish because. Well. It's after The End, and what happens after that is inherently noncanonical [unless Toby creates a sequel and—wow—please, yes please.] Hints of Soriel and my own interpretation of Frisk's character, as well as Asriel and Chara and pretty much everything.)
> 
> Just something I've been working on since the holidays had been less-than-stellar this year and I needed to get it out of my head. Sans and Frisk are proving quite therapeutic to write about, truth told. (Also: I've linked this as a series to my other Undertale fanfics, [_If You Talk Enough Sense_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8880370) and [_—When Our Souls Touched_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8673043), but it's not necessary that you have read any of them to delve into this. It just helps in a big-picture scheme of things.)
> 
> Reviews/thoughts/comments/critiques/etc. are always welcome. I didn't intend this to be as . . . angsty as it is, and honestly it's really muddy . . . (though I guess these issues often are) . . . but I do hope you enjoy. <3

****

  _Sans' phalanges are firm against their shoulder; Frisk senses deep fear in him, uncertainty . . . "let's get out of here."_

* * *

 

_(i) And all the winds are like a kiss,_

_And all the years are nemesis,_

_And all the moments fall in mist,_

_And all is dust: remember this._

* * *

"frisk?"

The room they share with Papyrus is dark, save light from the door framing Sans' stocky silhouette. Down the hall echo voices: down the hall are bright lights: down the hall, friends spill from kitchen to living room, squished onto the couch or sprawled beneath the little tree, still lit and green and bedazzled. Toriel—Mom—has shared some recipes with Undyne; they've baked cookies in the afternoon, letting Papyrus and Alphys spearhead the decorating. Frisk sat by the window then and watched them, smiling wanly at Sans' coy attempts to swipe a treat from the baking tray. Teleportation has its uses, then, even here outside the Underground.

But now that evening's come and it's just the house to light up the entirety of their lives, swathed in the pitch of the night, of the world, of the surface, Frisk finds themself here: exchanging light for darkness and mirth for solitude. Soon will come the culmination, the clock struck twelve, a chance to give thanks for what has become and celebrate what will be, no matter the hardships ahead.

(A year ago, where were they all . . . ?)

Last year. Last year. Less even than that . . .

Frisk burrows underneath the blankets, wrapping their arms around the pillow, curling knees to chest and wishing Sans would go away.

Of course he doesn't.

"what're you doing in here by yourself? the party's out there."

They shake their head, turning just enough to look at him; soft light dances in his eyes but they are somber; the ever-present grin across his face flickers at the corners, and is in some ways the saddest expression they know.

"hey. kid."

They shift over and the bed creaks as he sits down, saying nothing for a moment; he doesn't even reach to muss their hair. Mom would pick them up, would hold them, wipe away their tears, but the thought of her leaves a sickness in their gut. They find themself glad for Sans' preemptive distance now, his waiting for them to make the first move. He always has.

Convulsively they swallow, refuse to consider _that_ more.

Perhaps, as usual, he already knows what's brought them here.

"wanna talk about it?"

Of course they don't. _Please, just go away._

"welp, i'd guess not then, buddy, but i figured i'd give you the chance."

Too many chances he's given them already.

"tori misses you out there."

 _Why didn't you just kill me at the start?_ You _know what I've done._

"everyone does."

It takes them a moment to realize that, as well as he might know them, Sans cannot read their thoughts. Everyone _misses_ them, that's what he meant . . .

The skeleton is silent for a while longer. Frisk holds their breath, fighting the sudden acrid burning in their throat. Then, ever so lightly, one hand brushes at their shoulder, stirring them, the faintest trail of magic gathered at his fingertips: it's not a pull as much as a coaxing, a quiet cradling of their SOUL. Because, they realize slowly, sometimes words just aren't enough. Sometimes this rawness is all that's left.

And, for all the hard-harsh memories to flood them now—their SOUL cast blue—their SOUL thrown across the hall, again, again, pain searing through them and sweet darkness coming long before they learned to gain their feet—no—he, Sans, his SOUL is as all Monsters' made:

Love. Hope. Compassion.

What else would bring him here?

After all, he _is_ the arbiter and would-be executioner, if needs must, but not the murderer to catalyze the act. No, that's all on _them_ —and Frisk isn't sure, not even now, who's really to blame: Chara or themself.

* * *

(ii) _I put my SOUL in what I do._

_Last night I drew a funny man_

_With dark eyes and a hanging tongue._

_It goes way bad._

_I never liked a sad look_

_From someone who wants to be loved by you._

* * *

They wonder, sometimes, if the other children climbed the mountain for the same reasons as Chara, as themself. It saddens them, in an ironic way: their suffering and grief and struggle doesn't seem to matter so much but oh, but oh, that no other should so share that fate. That no other should not expect to survive the fall. Frisk wishes they could hold them, every one, could ask their name, could know them, know them as perhaps no one else has done because that's all that's really driven them—sheer desperate loneliness—

The circumstances, of course, are always different. What pushed Chara? Frisk doesn't know, save Asriel's cryptic talk of them hating Humanity. Frisk certainly didn't. Frisk does not know hate—not towards others—only, in the dark-nights, not unlike this one—only for themself. Even if the how or why are lost, the beast is always there.

(A year ago, where were they all . . . ?)

And that's why Sans haunts them, why they wish he'd leave: not merely because what they've done in the past (as-and-with-Chara) is but further fuel to the flame, but because these tangled thoughts, this aching, knowing beast, refuses him such kindness. Not that Humans haven't been kind to them before—ah—no, that would be unfair—but so much of the world is hostile, savage, wild, mad. There are, as Asriel also told them, many other Floweys here up on the surface. Being kind alone is not enough. Frisk almost wanted to weep then, when he said that, to cling to him again because, oh, they know already—oh, they know.

Still, still, child though they are, they know also that these things aren't merely circumstantial. Some people, perhaps like themself, are caught unawares by chemical imbalances, ones corrected by medicines—or else made far, far worse. They wonder vaguely if they'd have climbed the mountain otherwise. They wonder if Chara had no help. They wonder if why they did what they did was in part because of that—medicines or lack thereof or—

How long, really, has Chara been there—or been here—with them?

Was Chara in the knife, not so long ago?

(A year ago, where were they all . . . ?)

(Frisk remembers suddenly the pain, the blade-flash and the welling rush and the sweet euphoria—the rage that they hadn't succeeded—but they _knew,_ ah yes, they knew what Flowey meant, though, when he'd said he'd tried to die and didn't, didn't ultimately want it—in the rage was fear, relief, was—hope?—)

No Monsters against whom to wield that knife back then. No outlet for the bitter, burning, faceless, nameless rage and, over all, defeat.

Only—

"frisk."

Soft, the baritone, the cadence soft: the voice he uses only with themself, Papyrus, Mom.

_Mom._

Frisk's eyes sting, they blink, they can't stop the well of tears and clench their teeth against the bitterer clenching of their throat. Mom? Would that they'd known a mom like Toriel much earlier. Would that their mother had baked them pies and so lovingly cared for them. Would that their mother had accepted them for who they were—not Mama's Little Girl. Toriel—Toriel turned her suffering into kindness, again and again burying her grief like so many children . . . the woman who'd borne Frisk and given birth to them had had no such kindness, had turned suffering to rage.

"Mom." Frisk chokes against the word, doesn't look at him, can't bear to. "I want M-Mom . . ." Their teeth clamp over the diminutive, the childish ending that catches at their tongue. _Mommy_ . . . It tears at their heart and SOUL and all they want is to bury themself in Toriel's generous-soft-warmth and sob that word, over and over and over.

(A year ago, where were they all . . . ?)

There's the faintest touch of phalanges there against their cheek, thick tears running jagged tracks through bones which grate against each other, whispering heated cyan flares: his and Tori's child _hurts_ : would that he could stop the hurt, as he sought so many times to stop Chara—to save Frisk's SOUL. But he's felt, too, the knotted, healed-scarred flesh on Tori's cheek, her side, beneath the fur, though she seems not to notice it (because perhaps only he knows), and he hasn't said a word: much the same reason it must be that Tori, to his knowledge, has said nothing to Frisk about—

Restively he shakes his head, touches their shoulder, stands.

"okay, kid. okay."

* * *

"Please excuse me." Toriel, bearing ever the presence and poise of a queen, smiles faintly at the room, hides the knot gathered in her heart. "I—we—will rejoin you shortly."

"BROTHER!" Papyrus, from beneath the tree, head level with Undyne's hand dropped lackadaisically across the couch's threadbare arm, begins to scramble to his feet. "BROTHER, IS THE HUMAN—"

"frisk is fine, papyrus."

"THEN WHY—"

"Papyrus." Undyne catches Toriel's helpless eye, gestures to the tree, to a single small present still remaining—one she'd brought with her in the morning. "You like puzzles, huh? Open that up. Let's see how quickly you can solve it."

Papyrus' "WOWIE!" is lost to the strange silence which envelopes Sans and Toriel when they turn from the living room into the small, narrow hallway, all well-worn carpet and flaking walls, all low-ceilings beneath which Toriel often has to duck her head. Her hand is tight around his; he can feel the pulse there, a rapid, wrenching thing; she's seen bits of this before—in Asriel, Chara, all the others—ah—but somehow, somehow, Frisk being flesh-and-blood before her makes their suffering the worst—time has torn away the rest—

* * *

Toriel holds them, first, before anything, as they knew she would, and then they can't help but sob. Sans hovers in the doorway for a moment, thinks of leaving, thinks that this isn't for his eyes—but a trailing wail from Frisk does well enough to tether him.

Eventually he shambles close, lays a hand on Tori's shoulder where she crouches, reaches out again to hold Frisk, too. No one says a word. Nor do they need to see their SOULS, the two Monsters' in tandem cradling the Human's crimson heart. Traces of deep-blue, traces of bright cyan, winding their way through the darkness, faintest tendrils, healing light. Frisk, head buried in Mom's dress, eyes swollen and tear-sore, finds no need to see such a thing as this: the soft, broad body holding them, the steady, fine-boned hand against their back is enough, is enough, is—

Not enough, ah, no.

Frisk raises their head, struggles for a sense of cogent speech. "I didn't think you'd come," they whimper finally. "I didn't think . . . anyone . . . would . . . s-save me."

"from chara?" dances at Sans' teeth but he doesn't say it. This isn't about them . . .

"You don't know why I c-climbed the mountain. Don't know that I—I didn't expect to—" Shudderingly they draw a breath, again, again. "M-Mom, when I met _him_ , I w-wanted to—I let him hit me first b-because—"

Toriel's jaw is clenched; she rocks them for several moments, letting them speak, letting them regather themself. "My precious one," she whispers finally. "My darling child. You are safe and loved and mean so, so much . . . We will not leave you. _He_ —"

"He's still down there." Frisk trembles, pulls away a bit, can't look Toriel in the face, steals a glance at Sans. Sans, who knows as well as they— "I didn't expect anyone to save me. But you did—you all, you did. A-and. I." They shake their head. "It's—it's h-hard sometimes and I just—I need to—

"Please.

"I need to go back."

Toriel murmurs something almost unintelligible.

But Frisk's gaze now is only for Sans.

"You told me no more RESETs."

Silence. Hard silence, rife with worry, charged with the gravity of what's been said. Toriel reaches for the skeleton's hand, clings to it, heart pounding desperately; Frisk once climbed the mountain to end a thing—all things—their life. RESETs could erase mistakes, from what Sans has said. RESETs start things over. Now, with such a promise cast, what else is there? _Why would you go back, my child, to your—to what would have been your—_

Sans' eyes are dark. There's nothing really kind about the smile now.

But he doesn't bother to ask why.

"We're coming with you!" Toriel gasps, staring wildly between them. She trusts Sans with their life, of course, she always has, but there's something about this that—

Sans steps back, lets Toriel regain her feet, lets Frisk find theirs. Then he holds out his hands, cyan light gathered in the valleys there.

"O n l y  t h i s  o n c e."

* * *

(iii) _I'm very good with plants._

_When my friends are away,_

_They let me keep the soil moist._

_On the seventh day I rest_

_For a minute or two,_

_Then back on my feet and cry for you._

* * *

He doesn't dare let go their hand. Toriel's hung back, not far, but far enough to where she doesn't see the gaping maw of the mountain, the hellish entrance to the Underground. What was intended as Frisk's grave. So now they contemplate the precipice together, the child wrapped up in his coat (because none of them was thinking clearly—none of them considered the cold and biting snow). He doesn't care. There's nothing like that for these bones to feel, wrapped as they are in a shirt and shorts and the tattered, ever-present slippers.

"so. what are we doing, frisk?"

They glance up at him. "I want to go down and talk to him again." A pause. "You know who he really is."

Not a question, but he nods.

"I—I . . . wonder about . . . _them_. I wonder why sometimes it's so hard to be happy. I'm here, with you. I have a family. I'm loved. I'm—there's—m-monsters out here, too—you know—the bad kind."

If they catch the sharp edges of the slur against his race, they don't seem to know and he doesn't find he cares.

"But I just. I just. Same as I told Mom. I . . . didn't expect anyone to save me."

There are no tears now, though their voice has a certain monotonous quality he doesn't particularly like.

"And I can't . . . this doesn't fix things, Sans. Not a Perfect Happy Ending."

And that. And that.

 _(. . . and_ n o t h i n g  e v e r  e n d s. _)_

The thing he's guessed all this time tonight, the thing he's known, they've both known: whatever time and times they've shared this side of a RESET, and all the rest besides, ah, beyond all that there's still the truth enkernelled: somethings never seem to change, are damned hard to change, are things you live with and live around but never really—

Not unkindly now does he squeeze their hand. "i . . . trust you, kiddo. if . . . this is what you need to do . . ."

"Will you . . . help me . . . down?"

And this time he can't help it—like Toriel, he wraps them in his arms, holds them, just holds them, lets them feel the resonance of his SOUL, the flickering-sharp-threaded-fear-worry—and love.

"listen. you know i don't trust him."

Despite themself, Frisk manages a smile. "You caused him more than his fair share of RESETs."

". . . Frisk." Dulled pain in his voice; they've crossed a line; they bite their lips and force away the fiend, taunting them for lack of tact. They wonder vaguely if it's really Chara or—

"I know."

* * *

 Dark. Darker. Yet darker.

That's forever how it is.

When Frisk opens their eyes, they whisper a quiet, simple prayer of thanks, hardly knowing that Sans himself does just the same.

* * *

 "tori and i will be up there, okay? if anything . . . happens . . . you call for help."

Frisk nods, half-lost in the darkness, watching him disappear into greater darkness yet. Just up there, though, just on the surface where the light shines down: they hope he comforts Tori while they're gone. But they won't have to look for long, won't have long to wait. He'll be there. He always is.

* * *

(iv) _I want to be younger._

_I want to be stronger._

_I don't want to fall at the start._

_I want to be quicker._

_I want to get closer._

_I don't want to feel worlds apart._

 

_Because I'm fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away._

_And I'm old enough to know I'll end up dying and not young enough to forget again._

* * *

They stand for a moment in the filtered light. The bed of flowers beneath their feet, the bed that broke their fall, still blooms, somehow, here in the semi-darkness and the subterranean chill. Frisk deliberates a moment, wondering where he might be, wondering if he'll find them first—

Wondering what he remembers of them, of this timeline, of—

Well, he'd said he couldn't keep _his_ form, couldn't always remain Asriel . . . but here he'd been just that, just that, when Frisk backtracked before they stepped onto the surface . . . And, after all, what's time to such an ancient one, resurrected (in a fashion), and—long before Frisk—able to SAVE and to RESET the world at will? (Hadn't he first used his powers for good? Isn't there still hope?)

The cry is muffled in the silence, lost to the depths and emptiness. "Asriel?"

They'll call him by no other name . . . no matter what he is, what he's again become . . .

"Asriel?"

Movement at their feet. Their SOUL flutters—instinctively they clutch a hand to their chest and square their feet, ready to dodge, startled at how easily their body's reflexes kick in. They have no weapon now, nor would they ever wish for one . . . (For that matter, there's nothing in their Inventory—)

(But Mom and Sans—)

* * *

"Howdy!"

* * *

There's hesitation, sharp, between the both of them. Recognition, of course, always recognition there's been in that upturned, petal-haloed face.

But there's no saccharine-false-sweetness in the word.

And, anyway, the face—

Frisk kneels down, slowly allowing themself an exhalation, a breath they hadn't realized they were holding. Their hands tremble as they hold them forth, palm up, not so much a plea as a show of trust—of hope—of love.

Because that isn't Flowey's face, peering palely up at them in the distilled moonlight, petals kissed an opalescent shade. No. It's _his_.

* * *

"Y-you came back?"

They smile, gently, never allowing the thought to really cross their mind that this, like so many acts of his (at least in this form), might well be a trap.

"F-Frisk, I told you to forget about me."

"Well." Frisk settles themself properly in the bed of flowers, crossing their legs and reaching out as if to touch him with only the slightest reservation—until he shrinks away, a twisted look across his face—a forlorn kind of pain; no bitterness, just—

If they close their eyes, they can still _see_ him, the whole of him, a fluffy, stocky, white-furred Monster child with his parents' ears and the widest, saddest, deepest eyes they've ever seen. And a SOUL—yes, even just the echo of it—tremulously caught against their own.

"No one deserves to be alone."

Asriel looks up at them anew, fresh tears in his eyes. (They recollect another thing—Asgore's having never seen a flower cry before—but no—but no—the fiend is sharp tonight—Frisk knows that much—acknowledges the thoughts their own but always knows Chara's somewhere in there, too—inextricable, they are—the three of them—)

"Frisk, I-I don't . . ."

"I think," Frisk offers slowly, " _I_ think you didn't know what would happen when you released the SOULs, when you—when you thought you'd be a flower again. Forever? But. That's not _who_ you are. It's what's been done to you. Asriel, but it isn't who you are. Not even like this, not even after . . . everything."

"Frisk, I." A sharp shadow on that upturned face now, gleaming eyes, a flash of teeth. Frisk's muscles tense but they don't move, don't withdraw their upturned hands, don't let their expression waver in the slightest. "Frisk. I _feel_ them still. Their SOUL resonating in—in—"

". . . in me," they whisper finally.

A nod, a shifting of the stem, a shudder it might be in a being of more substantial form.

"Asriel . . . they scare me, too."

* * *

"What could they want with such a terrible creature?" A tremor threads its way through Tori's voice. Underneath the question are two others, far more pressing: "What's taking them so long? Do they need help?"

There's been no sound from the cavern—so—

Sans has trusted them with far, far more than this—

Hasn't he?

What if this—if this—

( _no more RESETs, kid. that was our promise. but . . ._ )

He leans against her, saying nothing for a moment, feeling her settle back against him, into the surprising amount of warmth emanating from his frame. What is there to say when Tori doesn't know that Flowey—that the "terrible creature"—is really—

(Does she remember when he stayed with her, when he hoped, he hoped, _she_ of all people could make him feel again—?)

"they'll be okay, tori. just give them time."

". . . Sans?"

"hm?"

"Are—are they . . . truly . . . so unhappy here? With me? With us?"

"tori." Sans looks up at her, fixes her with a gaze of darkness and the faintest, pinpricked light. "tori, listen to me. sometimes there are things . . . feelings . . . that they can't wholly control. it's the same for all of us. i mean . . ." He shrugs, somewhat apathetically. "you've, uh, you've seen how i can be. when it's—when it catches up with me."

Toriel, for all her love, has never probed much further into that than what he's told her: has heard of RESETs and therein understood some of his apathy, his nihilism, but—ah—she also knows it runs much deeper through his mind than that.

And their child? Does Frisk struggle with that same all-ending darkness, too? Did each of them? Her children? Does it look different in each one?

"tori, you can't take this personally. you can't . . . what you're so afraid of . . . look. it's not that. i won't speak for them, tori, but what you're afraid of isn't—isn't the case. that i promise you."

She glances at him and, marrow-chilled, he can't help but shiver now.

"Says the Monster who can't stand making promises."

* * *

"Why did you come back here, Frisk?"

" _They_ both brought me here. M—Toriel and Sans."

A distinctive rustle now, confusion in the shadows. "Why?"

Frisk shrugs helplessly a moment, struggling to discern just what it was that brought them here. Not Chara, surely—for all the darkness, no, they hadn't come for _that_ , nor could they—not ever again—this time, ah, there were friends to reach out to, friends to lean on, hopes and dreams—even Asriel must realize that—

"I guess they were loud tonight," Frisk manages finally.

Silence, for a moment: nothing needs saying about that.

Asriel understands implicitly, far more than Frisk would like.

"D-don't let them win." Dark eyes bore into theirs, steadily, without a blink: flower though he is, now with a Monster child's face, the eyes still oscillate between something Frisk might recognize and something . . . else.

"But you know it's not as simple as that, don't you?"

Softly then, the question: "You . . . Asriel . . . they hurt you, too?"

A sharp twisting of the stem—without thinking now Frisk reaches out—lays their cheek against that pollened face, still vaguely fur-like, even less-so Flowey's visage: wholly _his_.

"W-why are you _here_?"

Frisk doesn't bother looking up, feels him slowly begin to relax. In their mind they still can't help but see, but feel the Monster child clinging to them, sobbing—

Why should it surprise them now that they can feel his tears—that their own eyes burn and it's not worth trying not to cry, not now?

"Asriel," they whisper, "Asriel, I . . . you understand . . . this doesn't fix everything. This Happy Ending."

"I know," comes the answer, heavy with millennia, heavy with choices and regrets and RESETs and all else. "Frisk, I know."

"Asriel, I'm . . . sometimes . . . I feel so alone. I feel so afraid."

A vine slithers up, curls around their shoulders, gently, gently.

"I know, Frisk. I do know. But. I still meant what I said. You remember?"

Perhaps selfishly they want to hear again. They feign negation: a shake of their head.

"You'll be great. Whatever you do. You've got people who _love_ you, Frisk. There's nothing to prove, but they proved it tonight.

"Frisk, whatever happens . . . whatever _they_ say you are . . . whatever your own mind tells you, when they're loud like that . . . it isn't true. You understand? I know . . . what it is . . . to hear so often that you're _something_ —nothing, really—worthless—a crybaby—a weakling . . . a t-terrible c-creature . . . that you believe it. That it becomes real. Becomes who you think you are. But. Frisk."

Another shudder. "That's just what _they_ make you. It isn't who you are. N-no matter what you've done, or what's been done to you . . .

"Frisk. Do you understand . . . ?

" _You_ taught me that."

* * *

(v) _And all the dust will drift away,_

_And all the nights and all the days,_

_And all the heavens go their way,_

_And only change is here to stay._

* * *

"Sans."

The skeleton looks up, feels Toriel's pulse strike a staccato there against his bones; her grip is tight, that great, broad paw all but crushing him—she can't realize—but he doesn't mind.

"yeah, tori, i know."

Wordlessly he steps into the darkness, pulls her with.

* * *

It's been too long.

* * *

"I know y-you didn't answer me before, but . . . Frisk . . . why'd you climb the mountain?"

Frisk holds him, still, wishing there were more to his form that they could bury themself in; gentle vines and reaching leaves are soft-edged gestures but—

 _Not fair to him—not his fault—at all—none of this mess—he saved us all, humanity, from_ them—

"I didn't hate Humanity," they whisper finally. "I h-hated—"

* * *

"—m-myself."

Toriel stumbles slightly in the semi-dark, the air no longer crisp against her nose but thick, but musty, dead. First to reach her, though, the voice, the wrenching voice, her child's, and her heart longs for them so desperately that she staggers blindly forward—only to find she's tethered—only to find that Sans somehow has the strength, in just one hand and beneath the weight of lightless eyes, to hold her back. Wordlessly he shakes his head.

_tori—please—just wait._

"A-and that's why I came. Not b-because . . . I mean, S-Sans brought me down here. I don't want to die. I just . . . I just . . . they were so _loud._ They've always been t-too loud. B-because I was too weak, they said. B-because I-I love others too much. I l-let myself get hurt. I . . . h-hurt myself. I. Don't think I . . . deserve this love."

Rustled leaves, a laugh with not a lick of mirth behind. "Monsters are weird. They _really_ love you, Frisk, whether or not you believe it."

"Child—!"

The cry's at Toriel's throat and Sans doesn't hold her now—because he's there, too—an instant before she can pick up a flying gait and reach for Frisk and hold them close—he's already there—a cyan eye cast on the quailing flower but no more: a steady set of phalanges on Frisk's shoulder.

Frisk glances up, around, doesn't let their eyes stray far from _him_. "A—Fl— _wait_ ," they whisper fiercely, suddenly and sickeningly conscious of what Mom doesn't know—what would break her heart. "Please. Wait."

The face, upturned from the bed of golden flowers, casts them in a wide, wary-edged gaze, one beaded eye still fixed resolutely on Sans, who hasn't moved, whose cyan-spitting bones still tremble. More between the two of them, Frisk realizes, than they'll ever know . . .

"When I said I didn't want to die"—the words are rushed, are tangled, aren't meant so much for Mom or Sans but here they are, and Frisk can't bear not saying them—"I—it's complicated, because of them. But. That hope. That refusal . . ." They lean close, forehead almost pressed against the ground, their lips brushing a petal as they mouth his name so Mom doesn't hear. " _Asriel_. _You_ taught me that."

The vines are gone, the petals and the face sunk back into anonymity: a bed of flowers: nothing more, to all appearances, for now.

Frisk lifts their head, trembling, yearning for him already, wishing, wishing there were something they could do for him—wishing that somehow he could see the sun—that he needn't stay down here, like this—

But then they're wrapped up, without a word, in Toriel's embrace—Toriel, who doesn't shed a tear but holds them, rocks them, whispers promises of love and safety and never letting go. And, selfish though it may be, Frisk can't help but lean into it, be glad for it—but wasn't that what Asriel first bade them? To leave him and be with those who so strongly love them?

Was he—is he—so far, forever, beyond hope?

. . . Toriel just holds them . . . Frisk feels Chara writhing, feels them striking back at them for this, for this, for saying they want love and want only to SAVE him and yet, and yet, here they are again and nothing's changed because he's still _gone_ . . . It's not out of any sentiment for him that Chara feels, but a savage burden still for Frisk to bear: well the fiend knows it's volatile ammunition . . .

Sans' phalanges are firm against their shoulder; Frisk senses deep fear in him, uncertainty . . . "let's get out of here."

* * *

The party's still somehow in full swing when Sans drops them into Frisk and Papyrus' room—sound carries down the hall, light bleeds through the open door; Toriel reaches for the lamp's pull-cord and casts them all a brighter shade. Wordlessly Frisk hands Sans back his coat.

Tori's eyes catch on the bedside clock. "Surely that must be wrong; the clock has not changed but ten minutes . . . we've been gone far longer than that?"

"nah. just in time, tori."

Sans' grin flashes wider, briefly, before he sweeps a hand towards the open door. "go on, tori. we'll be right there."

The Boss Monster glances at them, worriedly, knowing that on the morrow there will be a serious talk with Frisk. Tonight can't go unexamined, this darkness can't go on unchecked . . . What their child could _ever_ willingly want with that terrible creature . . .

But tonight? Tonight? The clock's soon to strike its zenith and tonight isn't the night for that, not anymore. "I will see you soon, dear ones."

The door clicks shut. Sans turns.

"F r i s k."

The child studies him, is not afraid, because he isn't angry—no—just scared, just scared—and fear they can explain.

"You know who he really is. I . . . you know that I . . . saw him . . . at the end. You know what Chara did to him, what Alphys did. She couldn't have known, even though she knew so much." They shrug, searching for the words. "Tonight was a hard night. _They_ were . . ."

Sans sighs, reaches out to muss their hair. " 'a hard night'— that's an understatement, kid. i was worried about you. forget a RESET, frisk. i honestly . . . i don't know what you were doing on mt. ebott. i used to think you were just . . . trying to escape . . . but. well." He shakes his head. "it was something worse than that."

A nod.

"because of them?"

"I don't know. Part of them, part me."

Dark eyes almost swallow them. "so what can we do to help you, kid?"

Frisk purses their lips, not sure how to articulate that sometimes it's not a matter of being _helped_. "You all saved me, Sans. Don't forget that. Please."

"that's not an answer, frisk."

A whisper, not a child's, more from the darkness than the upturned, lighted face. "Don't leave me."

* * *

Unfinished is the rest of it, though their eyes track to the darkened window, toward the mountain, and Sans shifts, a restive rattling of bones: he knows.

* * *

_. . . not like I left him._

* * *

They say nothing more. It's not about who has the power now to RESET everything, who has the power to take everyone away from this, from the ones they love. Perfect Happy Ending? In a sense, perhaps. And wholly not: there is no end: whatever happened before Frisk climbed the mountain doesn't go away: whatever they _all_ did before Frisk fell will never disappear. Well enough they both knew, and know, that not all things are fixed as easily as barriers are broken—not that there was anything easy in that feat . . . But thanks to _him . . ._

_Asriel. Asriel's our angel . . ._

Someday, Frisk is determined to go back yet again, to spell out for him the true nature of the world in all its beauty—that it's not all like what Chara said, all those years ago. No. There are bright lights in the darkness, warmth and love and hope: friends gathered expectantly around a clockpiece as it sings a song in twelve slightly-broken chords.

(A year ago, where were they all . . . ?)

It's not that that doesn't matter. It all does, the sum of it, the things known and unknown, buried some of them for ages like the Amalgamates in Alphys' lab. And some of them forgotten. And some of them, themselves, still lost but for the hand out-held, the hope, the belief in the goodness of all SOULs.

* * *

Flowey still haunts their nightmares sometimes now, though not as often as he did.

Flowey.

Never Asriel.

And so, early in the morning when Frisk is pulled from a fitful sleep full of such tendrilled nightmares—the mountain, the fall, everything to come before and everything that's gone wrong in every other RESET—Flowey, Chara—they stumble to the window. On the sill still sits Sans' old pet rock, and the buttercup Papyrus has (somehow) kept alive. Before, before, Frisk remembers when the golden flower filled them with nothing but terror, as if that sole innocent plant could somehow be Flowey, and how they'd wanted—on some level—just to tear the thing to shreds.

This morning, though, in the predawn haze . . .

The fiend, for now, is silent.

Trembling, they bend their head, kiss the petals gently, whispering _his_ name.

**Author's Note:**

> (i) and (v): Enya, “The Humming…”  
> (ii) and (iii): Fever Ray, “When I Grow Up.”  
> (iv): Amber Run, “Fickle Game.”
> 
> One last note: I know it’s probably canon-divergent that Flowey’s more, well, Asriel than Flowey when Frisk finds him here, given what Asriel says in the end about turning back into a flower and so losing his compassion and the ability to love. (I question this statement, for several reasons, but to elaborate would be to digress.)
> 
> But.
> 
> It’s still _Asriel_ you find in the bed of flowers in the Ruins, if you take the time to backtrack all that way just before heading to the surface at the end of the True Pacifist route. I guess I’m thinking that—I don’t know—maybe he just _assumes_ that’s true, that in “a little while” he’ll turn back into that soulless form, into Flowey and no more.
> 
> Or maybe more of Asriel, _really_ Asriel, remains in this timeline, thanks to Frisk. Maybe he’s still a flower, but not really Flowey anymore.
> 
> “do you think even the worst person can change?”
> 
> . . . Yep, that I do.


End file.
